


the art of moving on

by chuuyas



Category: Elite (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28639221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuuyas/pseuds/chuuyas
Summary: Carla wakes up in a blind panic, the phantom feeling of blood on her hands enough to get her to wring them out frantically, a scream caught in her throat. It’s been weeks since she moved away from Spain and all its secrets in hopes of a fresh start, but the nightmares that plague her won’t give her rest.Marina. Polo.Samuel.
Relationships: Carla Rosón Caleruega & Lucrecia "Lu" Montesinos Hendrich, Carla Rosón Caleruega & Marina Nunier Osuna, Carla Rosón Caleruega/Samuel García Domínguez
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	the art of moving on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shawsameen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shawsameen/gifts).



> for mckayla! a little gift for one of my most favourite people in the entire universe hehe

_It always, without fail, begins near the pool. It looks the exact same as it did that night, down to the blood splatters, down to the people._

_Carla watches Marina dance in the middle of the room, slow and ominous, her movements jerky; the pool shines silver under the moonlight streaming in through the windows, the reflection rippling with every small wave. If she tries hard enough, she can remember Marina swimming, Marina laughing, Marina happy, but it all pales in comparison to Marina in what had been her last moments._

_“No,” Carla says, pained, the same words from a thousand memories, a thousand nights of being trapped here. Broken and quiet and pathetic. “Please, Marina, please—”_

_But, just like always, every plea, every cry, every whimper...it’s useless. Her old friend never hears her begging, always carries on with her dance, eyes unfocused and limbs heavy, blood spilling from her head down her throat. It stains her clothes, her body, the linoleum floor, inky-black in the darkness of the room. But Marina—_

_Marina keeps dancing, like a puppet caught on tangled strings. Dances and dances and dances until the blood covers absolutely everything, covers Carla’s hands, her shoes, her legs, dances until the sun rises outside their little world and burns away her quiet apparition._

_Marina dances her life away and Carla is powerless to stop it._

_In the aftermath, she sees snippets of every godforsaken memory of their high school, from Samuel’s disappearance to Polo’s death to her final goodbye. The sunlight is much too hot to bear, overwhelming as it sears her skin, her entire body from inside-out, but she can’t move._

_She can’t move._

* * *

Most nights, by virtue of where she’s studying, she spends alone. 

Carla wakes up in a blind panic, the phantom feeling of blood on her hands enough to get her to wring them out frantically, a scream caught in her throat. It’s been weeks since she moved away from Spain and all its secrets in hopes of a fresh start, but the nightmares that plague her won’t give her rest. 

Marina. Polo. _Samuel_.

Every soul she’s touched and tainted—an indisputable fact, given that she’s one of the only common denominators. Try as she may, there’s no denying that they would’ve been better off without her in their lives, that maybe—

Carla cuts herself off, angry at the inevitability of it all. It’s the same thought, day in and day out. 

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, clamours off, and heads towards the windows; she’s recently found comfort in the streetlights, a constant reminder that she’s not alone. Here, she’s just a nameless face in the crowd, someone who doesn’t have to be stared at or bothered or ridiculed for things outside of her control.

Here, she’s not Carla Rosón Caleruega. 

And what a relief that is, even if it does nothing to keep the nightmares away; there’s a certain power that comes with being unknown, something she’d never tasted until she left her parents behind. 

On the nightstand, her phone lights up.

A glance backwards shows her that it’s Lu, probably complaining about an upcoming midterm or quiz, but Carla knows her best friend well enough to know it’s Lu’s way of checking in on her. Ever since she had accidentally let it slip out that she’s been plagued by nightmares, Lu had begun to message her in the middle of the night, a gentle reminder that she’s only a phone call—or a text—away. 

Carla smiles; she barely notices the tears streaking down her cheeks. Her gratitude has her drifting back the few steps to her nightstand, picking up her phone with steady hands and unlocking it to read the entirety of Lu’s message.

 _Ugh, my prof totally has a hard-on for making my life living hell_ , it reads, signed with Lu’s signature cocktail of emojis. The familiarity is enough to draw a small laugh from her. _I hope yours aren’t half as bad as mine!_

 _Oh they definitely fucking are_ , Carla sends back, unsurprised—relieved—to see the three dots indicating that her friend’s typing. _I could write a thesis paper on it._

_You’re awake! Everything okay?_

She considers the question. Outside, the sun is already beginning to rise, soft wisps of pink cutting through the night sky, a pretty sight for tired eyes. One she has grown accustomed to over the weeks, sleepless nights sending her spilling her out of her bed just in time to catch the sunrise, usually. 

_Is_ she okay? 

It takes her a moment, but she manages to type back: _No. But it’ll get better._

* * *

Time passes; she grows. Still haunted by familiar faces and the things that had happened to them, but a trip home to see the others leads her back into Samuel’s orbit, back down a bridge she had burnt herself. 

It doesn’t mitigate what she sees in her sleep, but—

It helps.

—

It had been a quiet night.

Carla sits up in bed, knees drawn up against her chest and her cheek pressed against them. Her head is turned in the direction of the windows, the city lights casting a soft glow throughout her bedroom; it’s a comfort, being buried in the middle of a living world. Back home, her windows had only shown her the darkness of the skies, stars that were too far away, no sign of life anywhere in her orbit.

But things are steadily growing to be different now, even if the nightmares persist. It’s a reminder she has to give herself at least once a day, every time she’s caught in-between moments, rendered into a ghostly thing, her heartbeats stolen by memories she begs to forget. 

_Freedom_ , she thinks, eyes drawn to the mirror across the room. Her silhouette is a familiar sight, small and unassuming and _nothing_ in the darkness. The thought of her seizing to exist during the night is a comforting one; here, there is no one to pretend for, no all-seeing judge waiting to condemn her. Just herself, her thoughts, and the darkness as her witness. 

“Why are you awake?”

Well. Usually.

Carla turns her head to find Samuel looking up at her, eyes bleary and glazed over; sure signs that he’d just woken up. Despite everything he’d been through— _they’d_ been through—during high school, the man is a heavy sleeper, mercifully free from any sort of night terrors. Carla’s demons, though, are as tenacious as they are profound. 

She’s glad that if it had to be either of them, it’s her.

“No reason,” she tells him, trying for a reassuring smile; if the look on Samuel’s face is anything to go by, she’s failing rather miserably. “Go back to bed, Samu, I promise I’m okay.”

Her usual load of bullshit. 

“Another nightmare?” He asks, keeping his voice soft; she watches as Samuel pushes himself up against the headboard, eyes bright even in the darkness of the bedroom, two mesmerizing pinpricks of light. She’s so unbearably _fond_ of him. 

“Maybe,” she whispers, her voice cracking, and it shakes her—how _tired_ she sounds. Some days are much easier to swallow than others, days where she sees familiar faces in every shadow, blood on every surface. 

She had left Spain for freedom, but foolishly had forgotten that ghosts are bound to people, not places. And tonight? Was not one of those easier nights. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Samuel murmurs, reaching out across the space to rub her back soothingly. She focuses on the point of contact, the otherworldly warmth Samuel seems to carry with him everywhere he goes. 

Warmth that’s nothing like the smouldering sunlight from her night terrors. 

“Not right now,” she confesses, but she moves backwards, sinking into his embrace with a quiet sigh of gratitude. “Maybe someday?” 

“Someday it is,” Samuel agrees, accepting her full weight with grace that’s never present in anything else he does. But with Carla...she has seen people handle precious antiques with less care than Samuel handles her with, and she’s terrified of taking it for granted. 

Regardless, the trepidation in her heart recedes, and with Samuel’s strong heartbeat under her chest, she manages to fall back into an uneasy slumber.

 _Someday_.

* * *

Someday comes like this—

Samuel standing at the kitchenette, an apron around his waist and a frying pan of oddly-cooked eggs in his hand. Carla’s laughing at the exasperated look on his face, a cross between fond and indignant, and for the moment, they’re the only two people who exist in the entire universe. Their entire lives, narrowed down to this one memory; it leaves her heart impossibly light, chases away the shadows that demand her every thought. Even as her laughter eases and Samuel turns back around to plate up their breakfast, her peace persists.

And unbidden, her mouth opens—

“I have nightmares all the time,” the words come spilling out, but her throat doesn’t constrict, the world doesn’t end, and Samuel doesn’t run. It’s easy to keep going, when she knows that she, even in her most broken state, couldn’t scare the man away. “Of Marina, of Polo, of everything that had happened, and of...you.” 

“Me?” Samuel startles; even still, he places the pan back down on the stove and moves around the island to come stand next to where she’s seating, a placating hand reaching out to curl around her cheek. She leans into the touch, eyes shuttering close, basking in the comfort a simple touch brings her. 

“Of when you went missing,” Carla whispers, barely containing a flinch. “I know things are okay now, but it haunts me, the fact I almost lost you like I did Marina and Polo. It was _my_ fault.” 

“Carla,” Samuel starts, his free hand reaching up to rest on her hip. Carla opens her eyes to find him gazing down at her, something only made possible by the fact that she’s seated. His lips quirk upwards when their gazes meet, even if it’s forlorn. “You gotta move on, babe.” 

“I know,” she smiles, a quiet, hurting thing; her lashes are wet with tears that refuse to fall. There's a difference between knowing what has to happen and being able to see it through, though. “But what if I don’t deserve to? Half of it was my fa—” 

“That’s bullshit!” 

They both startle at Samuel’s outburst, one at the intensity and the other at the words, but he recovers quickly and barrels on. “Carla, you’ve shown remorse and regret everything that happened. You have fucking nightmares _every night_ about the shit that went down in that school. If that doesn’t show that you regret what happened, then I don’t know what will!” 

_Remorse_. As if it’s a big enough word to cover what she feels when she thinks about what had transpired, and who had ultimately paid the price, who's _still_ paying the price.

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmurs, a choked laugh bubbling past her lips. Months of sleepless nights leading to this leave her shaky at best, a tremor working its way through her bones. God, she _wants_ it. “But I...how do I just make it _stop_?” 

“You don’t,” Samuel finally says after a lengthy bout of silence, pulling her up into his arms and swaying their bodies from side to side. "It's not something that just stops in one day, Carla."

Which is the unfortunate truth, but painted red and gold in the dying sunlight, he looks like a dream. He looks like her future. 

“And yeah, it might not stop right away, but you know what? It’ll sure as hell slow down, and because you’re one of the strongest fucking people I know, you’ll make it through. And I’ll be there for you every step of the way.” 

It’s a promise, a vow spoken with Samuel’s trademark conviction, and carefully wrapped up in his embrace, it’s impossible to think of the words as a lie. 

And Carla? 

Caught between Samuel's arms and his lips on hers, dancing to a song only they could hear—

Carla, for the first time in a long time, hopes.

* * *

_It ends like this—_

_Marina, bathing in the early morning sunlight with her back in the grass, a wide smile on her face not unlike those from their shared childhood. Carla hovers above her, heart lighter than it's been in years, hair loose and swinging around her shoulders. The warmth of the summer day sinks into her bones, a pleasant weight she accepts wholeheartedly, and in the distance, she can see their friends and family._

_There’s a ring on her finger, one that doesn’t exist in real life, but she can guess where it’s from and what it means._

_“Carla,” Marina says, eyes alight with something Carla fervently hopes is peace. Joy. Everything Carla wishes so desperately to give her. “Finally, hm?”_

_No more dark rooms and spilled blood; no more dancing, no more strings, no more suffering. The thought of leaving it behind—not to be forgotten, but accepted, laid to rest—brings tears to her eyes, but they don’t fall._

_She’s tired of crying, and she’s sure Marina is tired of seeing her tears._

_“Finally,” she agrees, and there’s peace in her heart._

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this was passable, im not carmuel expert the way you are miss mckayla scream <3 to everyone else, i hope you enjoyed it! comments n kudos are always appreciated and you can always find me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/dazaais)!


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